


of human interface and interchange

by statueofsirens



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, WandaVision (TV), X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Fix-It, Gen, Identity Issues, Light Angst, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, What is denial if not headcanons persevering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:56:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29887668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/statueofsirens/pseuds/statueofsirens
Summary: Ralph's played too many roles already, and he's not ready for whatever the next one will be.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 136





	of human interface and interchange

**Author's Note:**

> I may revisit this concept later on for a more expanded story, but for now, I just wanted to play with the implications of Ralph's casting within the world of WandaVision.
> 
> Title is a lyric from Vital Signs by Rush.

Whatever fear he had at being thrown and straddled evaporates, because Ralph is very good at his role. Be goofy, be stupid, be enough of a lecher for it to be funny but not creepy.

The chick is strong, and heavy, and solid, and he only manages a grin because it’s a twist of fortune if anything. The Missus will probably be annoyed that he’s gone and gotten himself sat on by a real pretty girl while she was away, but it’s not his fault anyway. He’s dumb and mildly horny, just like he’s supposed to be.

But then the beads of the necklace pull tight against the back of his neck as she reaches for it, and there’s a vague feeling of unease just before the snap and it breaks away.

Then it’s not so funny. Not quite as hot. There’s a strange woman pinning him to the floor, and the eerie purple filter he’s been seeing the world through lifts. His heart feels like a jack hammer in his chest, and all he knows is that he’s scared, and that there’s a stranger holding him down.

He pleads, and she looks amused. Just tells him it’s nice to meet him, and then she’s standing and leaving, like she was never there at all.

He doesn’t get up for awhile. 

The purple haze is gone, but red still pushes on the corners of his psyche. Heavy and painful, a constant pressure pushing at the corners and nooks of his mind. He lays there and wonders how many days have gone by like this, if it was normal to get caught up in a technicolor game of tug of war. He doesn’t remember much before Westview, but he remembers that for a few days there was a woman in his house with a shrill laugh, and who called him dear with a sneer twisting her lips.

A prickle of unease down the back of his neck motivates him to get up off the floor. 

It sounds like thunder is crashing outside, but the light from the windows tells him it’s a clear and sunny day. All days in Westview are sunny. He forces himself to look away, and instead he putters around his attic, aimless and a little lost. What was his role supposed to be, again? Just the dumb lecher, or the unseen husband, or disruptive brother come to town? He can’t remember. It keeps changing, over and over, and there’s snapshots in his mind of all these different characters he’s supposed to be.

The headshot on the table says Ralph. So at least his name is right. But the hair isn’t, because his hair isn’t brown or curly, and he doesn’t remember how it got straight and silver.

Did the purple witch with the cackling laugh change his hair? The details are fuzzy. He remembers her sideways smile and her going on confusing rants whenever he was let out of the attic, the feeling of sharp fingernails digging into his arm when she linked her elbow with his, but not much else.

So, witch. Not wife. He remembers her being his wife. Or at least believing it.

She was kind of a shit wife, to be honest. Not real friendly, not very nice. Very good at keeping doors locked, of both the physical and metaphorical kinds. 

He sits back down on the couch with his undrunk smoothie. Pulls his legs up and his knees close to his chest, and just holds onto the plastic container as he considers the murky green inside. He’s hungry but not. Aimless, but has a purpose. He’s had too many purposes but also not enough.

Agatha’s directions were a lot clearer than Wanda’s.

That’s right. Agatha. Purple witch and not-wife. Wanda, the red presence that’s giving him a migraine. 

She must not know what to do with him. That, or she’s given up on giving him directions. Directions like _Please be him_ and _I just want my brother to hold me_. He thought he’d been doing a pretty good job, but. Well. The tug of war had gotten sloppy, and he must have snuffed his lines at some point.

He sits a bit longer, and sips his smoothie. The thunder gets louder, and the light from the window turns red.

His heart is still beating fast. Every so often, a beat lines up with the crash of the thunder outside, and it makes his stomach roll sickly. 

There’s a feeling of inevitability settling over him. Ralph-the-Husband existed and is now gone. Fake-Pietro-Maximoff had existed and is now gone.

His stomach rolls again, the green smoothie not sitting so well, and he sets it aside on a cluttered end table. He realizes that whatever is going to happen is probably going to result in Ralph-the-Goofy-Degenerate being gone, too. 

He’s been too many roles already. He doesn’t know who he was before or who he’ll be after, but he knows that at the moment he exists. 

But soon he won’t.

The thunder stops, and the red light recedes. He’s able to breathe a little easier, but he stays where he is. Some primitive, instinctive, part of his brain is telling him that going outside is a bad idea.

Or maybe that’s some piece of Agatha he hasn’t shook off. The one that tells him that doors stay locked, and Ralph’s stay hidden away until needed. He should press play on the movie he had set up for the badass girl. It would distract him.

But he doesn’t. He just sits, reaches for the smoothie again and holds it. The plastic is cool in his hands but the smoothie is warm and lumpy, the solids starting to separate from the liquids.

His stomach turns again, and his face is wet.

Ralph-the-Goofy-Degenerate is supposed to be a comedic role. He’s not a dramatic or important character. He doesn’t have any emotional scenes. This is Wanda’s show, hijacked by Agatha, and he’s a throw-away character. 

He’s not supposed to cry, so he isn’t sure why he is.

The red is creeping through the window again. A faint glow at first. But it builds and builds, as if it’s getting closer, and his hands shake.

He’s been too many things already. He can’t change again.

But he will, because he has to. There aren't any other choices.

The red light passes through him, and his mind goes blissfully blank for a quarter of a second.

The attic clears. Clutter melts away like pixels. The house reshapes itself as it finds the way back to its bones. Dark tunnels under the foundation fall away and reshape into an empty concrete box with old water stains on the floor.

Outside, a _For Sale_ sign swings in the breeze, dirty and water marked from having been in the rain and sunlight for too long.

Peter wakes up in an empty room and wonders why his face is wet.


End file.
